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Authors: Charlie Leduff
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to the churches would man up and run against him, he could be taken out.
Sheffield was smart, I could see that. He viewed the chessboard and was almost convinced he was the man to put Conyers king down, and he hired Mongo to do his groundwork.
Conyers’s district was gerrymandered into a strange racial stocking that also included some working-class white communities.
“The rednecks would vote for a fucking pink donkey before they’d vote Conyers,” Mongo said. “You’re black, but Conyers is the face of everything they hate.”
But Sheffield was getting pressure from D.C.: Charles Rangel, the longtime congressman from Harlem, had called that very morning and asked Sheffield to bow out, and Sheffield, a product of the political machine, was considering it.
“I have to think about it, Adolph. There’s a lot to consider here. I’ve got a lot to lose.”
“Oh goddamn, Horace, you ask me to do this shit and then you act like an old white woman. You think about it then,” he said with exasperation. “Call me when you decide.”
Mongo and his brother left. I decided to leave with them.
Mongo turned to me at the door, near the room where the students were now sleeping with their heads on the tables. “Did you learn anything?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “He seemed pretty worried about an opportunity that seemed there for the taking.”
“It got decided a long time ago in Detroit,” Mongo said. “The city belongs to the black man. The white man was a convenient target until there were no white men left in Detroit. What used to be black and white is now gray. Whites got the suburbs and everything else. The black machine’s got the city and the black machine’s at war with itself. The spoils go to the one who understands that.”
“So we’re standing in a moment of history?” I asked.
“That’s right,” he said. “And you’re going to find out, if you stick around, that a lot of the people holding political power nowadays are some bizarre incompetent sons-a-bitches.”
“And what about the reverend back there?” I asked, pointing to Sheffield.
“Fuck it,” Mongo said, shaking his head at a lost opportunity.
L IPSTICK AND L AXATIVES
I BEGAN TO understand just how bizarre Detroit politics could be when I met Monica Conyers, the high-strung city councilwoman, for a cocktail at a local jazz club in the early summer.
The youngish and voluptuous wife of the doddering congressman, Conyers had come to city politics under the banner of being a Conyers.
Her campaign commercials had the murky production quality of bad porno films and looked as if they’d been shot through a shower curtain. Still, they were simple and traded hard on her husband’s name as a civil rights warrior.
“Join the Conyers family as we fight to take back Detroit from those who put self-interest above your interest,” she cooed, dressed in a form-fitting blouse that highlighted her ample cleavage. “Detroit deserves better.”
Detroit chose Conyers, a political novice whose thin résumé included failing the bar exam four times. And Conyers got to work before she was even sworn in. Her first order of business was to pummel a woman in a barroom brawl after the woman complained about Conyers chatting up her man. The woman left with a black eye as big as a tea saucer.
Just in time for my arrival in Detroit, Conyers—in her capacity as a trustee on the city’s pension board—threatened to shoot one of Mayor Kilpatrick’s aides who rubbed her the wrong way.
“I’ll have my brothers fuck you up,” she shouted at the man, according to the police report and news accounts. “I’ll get a gun if I have to, and I got four brothers who’ll whup your ass.”
Conyers denied that she threatened the man. She said he started it first. She filed a complaint against him after he filed one against her.
Monica was my kind of woman. As least as far as the reporter in me goes. She was a self-absorbed, self-serving diva. A
Sheffield was smart, I could see that. He viewed the chessboard and was almost convinced he was the man to put Conyers king down, and he hired Mongo to do his groundwork.
Conyers’s district was gerrymandered into a strange racial stocking that also included some working-class white communities.
“The rednecks would vote for a fucking pink donkey before they’d vote Conyers,” Mongo said. “You’re black, but Conyers is the face of everything they hate.”
But Sheffield was getting pressure from D.C.: Charles Rangel, the longtime congressman from Harlem, had called that very morning and asked Sheffield to bow out, and Sheffield, a product of the political machine, was considering it.
“I have to think about it, Adolph. There’s a lot to consider here. I’ve got a lot to lose.”
“Oh goddamn, Horace, you ask me to do this shit and then you act like an old white woman. You think about it then,” he said with exasperation. “Call me when you decide.”
Mongo and his brother left. I decided to leave with them.
Mongo turned to me at the door, near the room where the students were now sleeping with their heads on the tables. “Did you learn anything?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “He seemed pretty worried about an opportunity that seemed there for the taking.”
“It got decided a long time ago in Detroit,” Mongo said. “The city belongs to the black man. The white man was a convenient target until there were no white men left in Detroit. What used to be black and white is now gray. Whites got the suburbs and everything else. The black machine’s got the city and the black machine’s at war with itself. The spoils go to the one who understands that.”
“So we’re standing in a moment of history?” I asked.
“That’s right,” he said. “And you’re going to find out, if you stick around, that a lot of the people holding political power nowadays are some bizarre incompetent sons-a-bitches.”
“And what about the reverend back there?” I asked, pointing to Sheffield.
“Fuck it,” Mongo said, shaking his head at a lost opportunity.
L IPSTICK AND L AXATIVES
I BEGAN TO understand just how bizarre Detroit politics could be when I met Monica Conyers, the high-strung city councilwoman, for a cocktail at a local jazz club in the early summer.
The youngish and voluptuous wife of the doddering congressman, Conyers had come to city politics under the banner of being a Conyers.
Her campaign commercials had the murky production quality of bad porno films and looked as if they’d been shot through a shower curtain. Still, they were simple and traded hard on her husband’s name as a civil rights warrior.
“Join the Conyers family as we fight to take back Detroit from those who put self-interest above your interest,” she cooed, dressed in a form-fitting blouse that highlighted her ample cleavage. “Detroit deserves better.”
Detroit chose Conyers, a political novice whose thin résumé included failing the bar exam four times. And Conyers got to work before she was even sworn in. Her first order of business was to pummel a woman in a barroom brawl after the woman complained about Conyers chatting up her man. The woman left with a black eye as big as a tea saucer.
Just in time for my arrival in Detroit, Conyers—in her capacity as a trustee on the city’s pension board—threatened to shoot one of Mayor Kilpatrick’s aides who rubbed her the wrong way.
“I’ll have my brothers fuck you up,” she shouted at the man, according to the police report and news accounts. “I’ll get a gun if I have to, and I got four brothers who’ll whup your ass.”
Conyers denied that she threatened the man. She said he started it first. She filed a complaint against him after he filed one against her.
Monica was my kind of woman. As least as far as the reporter in me goes. She was a self-absorbed, self-serving diva. A
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